Darkness. And then it appeared on the horizon, just as the prophecies foretold so many years ago. The ancient stove pipe hat symbol shone out against the clouds, illuminating the night. It has begun. From all corners of the globe, the forces of ultimate evil began to stir. Kind Of Hip-Hop Lincoln, in the middle of a breakdancing competetion, grabbed his cardboard and ran. Goth Lincoln put down his pen in the middle of composing some atrociously bad poetry, switched off his Cure mix tape and began jogging. Emo Lincoln stopped crying, threw on some highwaters and a tight cardigan and hopped on his bike. Butt Rock Lincoln dropped his hairspray bottle and began skipping down the road. El Pantalones took the pants off his head and jumped into his El Camino and sped away. Red Shirt Lincoln readied his photon torpedos and slipped away to the holodeck. Booty Coordinator flipped open her little black book and started yapping away on her cell phone. Narcoleptic DJ Abe, asleep on the turntables yet again, woke up and hopped on a Greyhound. Punk Rawk Lincoln finished sticking a rusty shard of glass through his ear and skated into the night. Dirty Hobo Lincoln grabbed his mangy mutt, secured his knapsack, and hopped the next freight out of Tuscaloo. Crazy Mary Todd Lincoln breaks out of the mental ward, thanks in no small part to a hacksaw hidden in a footlong hot-dog sent to her cell by an admirer. What did it all mean? Where were they all going? The end of the world was nigh. All the forces of hell were concentrating on a obscure rock club in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The army of darkness was ready. For John Wilkes Booth, now armed with a crappy speed metal band from Fargo and the ability to breathe fire, was ready to wage war. Let the battle begin.